


Regrets & Cutlery

by jsargis



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Friendship, It can't be helped, Just asshole "light" now, Marta buys Ransom a dog, Marta is too good, Ransom is still an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27592277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jsargis/pseuds/jsargis
Summary: The first time Marta suspected Ransom wasn’t acompleteasshole was at Harlan’s winter family dinner her first year of working for him. Make no mistake, Ransom was in fact an asshole, it’s just a matter of which version of himself he decided to put on that day.or; Marta and Ransom become unlikely friends in the wake of Harlan's passing. There also might be a dog involved.
Relationships: Marta Cabrera/Ransom Drysdale
Comments: 7
Kudos: 255





	Regrets & Cutlery

**Author's Note:**

> Harlan wasn't murdered. Ransom isn't a murderer. Marta is still the best possible human being.

The first time Marta suspects Ransom isn’t a  _ complete _ asshole is at Harlan’s winter family dinner her first year of working for him. Make no mistake, Ransom is in fact  _ an asshole _ ; it’s just a matter of which version of himself he decides to put on that day. 

The dinner is an annual affair dressed to the nines with an exorbitant amount of food and wine. However, Marta has been working for Harlan long enough to know what family gatherings mean; belligerent, drunk, racist--

Marta is used to it by now, her ears falling deaf to their remarks regarding “politics.” Despite this, having to hear racist comments directed toward her is a different story entirely. Watching as the family sits in the lounge with their martinis and cigars hurtling racist rhetoric her way, Marta can feel the bile rising in her throat, panic setting in.

As she turns to sprint towards the front door, just to get some fresh air, she collides with something plush yet solid. Her fingers are met with a cotton sweater, and two strong arms catch her before she’s able to fall over. 

“Whoa, whoa nurse, slow down.” 

Marta looks up to find Ransom, black sheep of the Thrombey family, staring down at her with dark eyes. He flexes his hands twice, looking up over her to eyeball his family, giving them a particular look that Marta can’t decipher. She takes a moment to look down at her shoes, willing herself to calm down from being berated by the family. Ransom loosens his grip on her arms and slides his hands down. He gives her what Marta imagines is the complete opposite look he just shot toward his family, leaning into her space. 

He ghosts the shell of her ear with his voice, “Don’t let them win.” 

Ransom releases her and pushes into the lounge. “Can’t we go one evening without you all being raging pricks,” he says, with his arms raised dramatically. 

“You’re one to talk. You’re the biggest prick of em’ all.” 

A year later, Harlan dies. The will is read and Marta is the sole beneficiary to the entire Thrombey fortune. 

Ransom is the only one who doesn’t beg for the fortune back. In fact, he never speaks a word to her after that. He leaves the estate the day of the reading with white knuckles and nearly has his BMW on two wheels when he bolts from the gravel driveway.

It’s been two years since the entire family was cut out of even a cent of Harlan’s grand fortune. Two years since Harlan passed away peacefully in his sleep, only to leave a wake of chaos behind. Two years since Marta’s life changed drastically forever, for the better? She’s not so sure. 

After some time, Marta reaches out to Meg to check in on her schooling. She does little to hide her surprise at receiving the call, and tells Marta that her and her good for nothing family never deserved her. Marta thinks she might be right–all but Harlan that is. 

Meg keeps her updated on the family's well-being. Marta, despite her best efforts, cannot simply turn a cold shoulder entirely to the family. She pays for Meg’s school for the first semester, but is surprised to hear Meg will no longer be needing the tuition money because she's applied to enough scholarships to cover her remaining years. Jacob eventually shies away from his fascist proclivities and centers himself, with the help of Meg of course. Marta offers to pay for Jacob’s schooling too, to which he refuses, explaining how he plans to travel before settling down for college. 

Marta called Linda to ask if she needed help paying for her divorce, in which Linda hung up on her. Walt continues to harass her, randomly showing up drunk trying to get in the gate. Marta tells Jacob she’s happy to pay for his father’s rehab should he ever need it, to which Jacob is grateful. Aside from a few things here and there, Marta keeps her nose out of their business. 

It’s only when Meg tells Marta that Ransom hasn’t been heard from in nearly a year that she starts to worry. 

She hires a PI to track him down, eventually finding him at the bottom of a bottle in a run down bar just outside of the city. He takes one look at her and calls her his worst nightmare. 

Marta manages to drag him back to his apartment, an address her PI got for her, and leaves him there with a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water. 

He calls her the next day. “Don’t ever fucking come near me again.” 

Marta does as she’s told, lamenting that she can help him without having to go near him at all. 

A month later, Marta sends him a dog. A puppy, to be exact.

“What the shit is this?” 

“That shit is a dog, Ransom. Her name is Missy. You’re of course welcome to come up with a better name, if you have one.”

“I’m not your fucking charity case, Cabrera.” 

“I know.” 

“I fucking hate dogs.” 

“I know.” 

They sit on the phone in silence for a minute. Marta wonders if she’s made the right decision, trusting him to not kill the animal. 

Finally Ransom breathes, “Missy is a shit name,.” and hangs up. 

After a month or so of radio silence, and sending half a dozen packages of assorted dog-supplies and toys, Ransom calls again, this time at midnight. 

“Stop spoiling my dog.” 

Marta rubs the sleep from her eyes, sitting down on the floor with the green rotary phone nestled in her lap. “Did you keep the name?”

She can hear his heavy sigh on the other end, like he’s relenting. “No. I told you it was a shit name.” 

“Well what did you change it to?”

He pauses for a moment. “Astra.” 

Marta yawns, hugging her knees while resting the phone on them. “That’s a nice name. I’m assuming she doesn’t hate you?”

“By some god awful miracle. She won’t leave me alone.” 

“That's called loyalty, Ransom.”

“I guess.”

They talk for what feels like hours. Mostly about Astra and how she’s settling in. Ransom insists on sending her checks for all the supplies she sent over, “I don’t need your goddamn charity,” he spits, but quickly deflates. “I don’t want to owe you anything.” 

“You don’t owe me anything, Ransom. Gifts aren’t something you repay.” 

He’s quiet for a long drawn moment. “Why are you gifting me things, Marta?”

It’s the first time he’s said her name since Harlan’s death. 

“Because I want to. Isn’t that enough?”

“No one gives things without expecting something in return.”

“Well I don’t.”

“I guess so,” is the last thing he says before he hangs up.

The two play phone tag for the next two months. Calling each other at odd hours, sometimes to chat about Astra, sometimes to talk about life in general. Marta finds herself more often than not looking forward to these calls, finding comfort in Ransom’s brisk deep voice. Ransom must find some value in their calls as well, always picking up the phone on the first ring. Sometimes Marta thinks Ransom might overflow if he doesn’t speak with her, keeping her up for hours talking about his “boring as shit” job. One night he even quietly admits to her that he’s begun writing for himself, grumbling something about Harlan’s legacy. Marta tells him his grandfather would be proud, and they stay silent on the phone till eventually Marta falls asleep. 

Finally, she asks him a favor. 

“See, I knew you’d ask for something.” 

There's a benefit happening, an event Harlan does every year for his publishing company. Meg described it as grandad’s way of sucking all the elites in the book business dry of their money in the name of charity. She also described it as a hellish event where the worst types of people commiserate on their shittiness. Meg, while offering to help with the benefit, admits to not knowing many of the people in attendance, and suggested Ransom might be helpful to have as arm candy. 

“You want me to shmooze money out of old assholes for the sake of what, orphans?”

“Something like that. You can bring Astra with you. I miss her.” 

“I didn’t agree to anything.”

“Please, Ransom.” 

She hears him inhale on the other line, followed by the trotting and jingling of Astra in the background. 

“I’m not wearing a tie.” 

Ransom shows up wearing what she imagines is the best he can do on his strict budget of working a random clerical desk job in the city. He still looks nice though. Astra, the bundle of chestnut fur with lopping shepherd ears, follows after him faithfully. 

This is the first time since Marta took a drunk Ransom home that they’ve seen each other face to face. She’s reminded of how handsome he is, betrayed by her free flowing thoughts.

When Marta and Meg walk down the steps of the estate to greet him, his jaw slacks at the sight of Marta. She isn’t wearing anything wild, just a simple sleeveless black dress with the sides cut out, revealing tan skin. Ransom’s fingers twitch.

Meg doesn’t miss his stare and clucks. “Put your tongue away, Ransom.” 

Ignoring her, Ransom puts his hand over Marta’s where it’s made home grabbing his forearm, ushering him along. “Didn’t know you owned anything but scrubs, Cabrera.”

Marta rolls her eyes, “One of these days we’re going to have to teach you how to give a proper compliment.” 

Ransom is a model citizen. He helps Marta with the more difficult guests, most of them older gentlemen who’ve never seen a person of color in their life. 

The real trouble, Marta discovers, is the younger crowd. Trust fund men around her age, not unlike Ransom, all with silver spoons jutting from their lips and wandering hands. Or what Ransom  _ used _ to be like, she gently corrects herself as she spies him taking a donation check from an elderly couple near one of the furnaces. 

They’re assholes. Most of which have made passes at her through the evening. Meg has her fair share of men trailing after her, but the word has gotten out that Harlan left his enormous estate to Marta, making her the main course. 

This, of course, does nothing to help Marta’s nerves. Staving off panic over the entire event, Marta scans the outdoor event for Astra, finding her trailing one of the servers who has a full plate of appetizers. She hears a whistle, and watches as Astra’s ears perk up. A split second later, the puppy is darting over towards Ransom, who is crouched down with arms open. 

Marta bites back a smile as she watches Astra bound into Ransom. He’s not only taken amazing care of the dog, but he’s trained her too. When Marta was first struck with the idea, Meg nearly fell out of her chair. Despite her skepticism, Marta knew from a long career of taking care of others that having to get up in the morning for someone else’s benefit can help a person appreciate life. 

Meg comes behind her, watching the same display. “I thought I’d never see the day.” 

As the night goes on, they bump into each other a few times during the event, updating the fundraising count and checking in on guests that haven’t been tapped yet. 

Ransom notices Marta’s unease immediately, gently resting a hand on her back and leaning in. “Any of these assholes bothering you or Meg, you send them my way, okay? I went to school with all these pricks. I know how to handle them.” 

“I’ve learned a thing or two since you’ve seen me last, Ransom. I can handle them.” Marta swallows the acid boiling in her throat over the half-truth. She can handle herself, that she’s sure about. They still make her nervous, however. Similar to how Ransom made her nervous, before the winter dinner years back. 

“Good. They should know better than to mess with you, anyway.” His hand falls from her back but he leans in closer and whispers, “Don’t let them win.” Ransom leaves a whispered kiss on her cheek before disappearing back into the crowd. 

It’s nearly midnight before the guests start to trickle out. Having met and surpassed their fundraising goal nearly two hours ago, Marta has been mentally winding down from the evening since ten. Meg stays as long as she can before she admits she has an early class tomorrow. Marta assures her they’ve got it handled. Ransom, taking it as a challenge, continues to sweet talk people out of their money. 

“For the orphans,” he mouths to her across the grass, waving another check and tucking it into his jacket pocket. 

Just as Marta is ready to write the night off as a success, Ransom can’t be found. She filters through the guests as they’re waving their goodbyes to her, looking for him. Would he have just left, without saying anything? Could he be inside? 

It’s then she hears Astra barking in the distance, around the stone patio. She follows the sound and finds Ransom, covered in blood, his fists tightly knotted around the fancy coat of one of the trust fund men, his face matching Ransom’s.

“ _ Ransom! _ ” He stops immediately, frozen in place, like a switch flipped. Marta, like staring a bull straight in the face, pulls Ransom off the man who tumbles to the floor in a heap of bad cologne and a ruined Armani suit. Her hands come up to Ransom’s face, clumsily checking his injuries. His body goes slack in her hands while his half lidded eyes watch her fuss over him.

Marta turns toward the man on the ground, offering her hand. “I’m so sorry for any trouble--” 

The man slaps her hand away and spits on the ground near her feet. “Don’t touch me, you--” 

She hears Ransom's icy voice from behind her. “Choose your next words carefully.” 

“Oh, fuck you Drysdale. Fuck you and this bitch.” 

Marta will swear on her life she doesn’t remember punching him. Doesn’t remember the feeling of her fist meeting his jaw, or the string of expletives that leapt from her throat the pain sank into her bones. Can’t remember Ransom whispering  _ holy shit _ under his breath as Todd the Asshole limps away clutching his chin.

It’s only later when Marta drags him inside to the nearest bathroom, rummaging under the sink for her medical bag, that the adrenaline from the moment begins to wear off. Ransom sways back and forth from his perch on the toilet, staring at his hand and then at Marta.

“Marta, slow down. I’m not going to bleed out.” 

Her hands shake as she throws open doors and cupboards “My medical bag should be here--” 

“Marta.”

“I always leave an extra bag in this bathroom because it’s closest to the front of the house and--” 

His hand finds hers, two fingers slipping into her palm. “ _ Marta. _ ”

She stops, looking back at Ransom. He smiles at her, one eye swollen and a nasty bruise blooming on his left cheek. There's blood leaking from his temple. “I’m fine.” 

“Why did you  _ do _ that? The night was going so well--”

Ransom looks back down at his hand, palm covered in dirt and dried blood. His smile reserved for only Marta slips from his face. “Todd’s a fucking prick.” 

“They’re all pricks. You said so yourself.” 

“Well, Todd is especially a prick.” 

Marta hums to herself as she finally manages to find her bag, pulling out gauze and stitching. She slots herself between Ransom’s legs, his knees bumping against her thighs as she goes to work on the nasty gash on his forehead. He swallows thickly, looking up at Marta as she works. Astra has curled up at Ransom's feet, tucked between the sink and toilet, only content being near the both of them.

After a long while, Marta, noticing the angry crease in Ransom’s brow, breaks the silence, whispering, “What did he say, Ransom?”

“It’s nothing.” 

“You did a whole lot of something for a whole lot of nothing.” 

His idle hands play with the seam of her dress that brushes against his thigh. “I don’t want to repeat it.” 

“Ransom…” Marta stops, running her thumb over his unbruised cheek. 

“I don’t know why I care. The shit he said is stuff I would’ve said. Stuff I  _ have _ said.” 

“Then why did you punch him?”

He takes a long, drawn moment to push the next sentence off his tongue, “Because he said them about  _ you. _ ” 

“Oh.” 

_ Oh. _

His forehead presses into her stomach as she sets her tools down. Her hands find their way to the back of his neck, carding through his hair. 

“My honor doesn’t need defending, Ransom,” she whispers, resting her lips against his hair. 

Ransom chuckles against her, making her shiver. “Oh, I’m well aware of that, Marta. I felt my bones shake when your fist hit his jaw.” 

She sighs, letting her head fall back in anguish. “My hand is going to hurt for weeks.” 

“Worth seeing him limp away, though.”

Looking down at him, Marta sees both the same man she met years ago, but also a completely different man. As if the Ransom that’s sitting before her now had always been hiding, just beneath the surface, begging for someone to coax him out. Someone to put their faith in him. Someone to  _ care _ about him. His eyes are full of sincerity and promise, and it both exhilarates and terrifies her at the same time.

“I haven’t thanked you.” He says finally. 

“For what?”

“For saving me that day at the bar. I’m sure you found me through some PI or something, but--” Ransom trails off, letting his words linger. He runs his hands up and winds them around her back, burying his face in her dress. 

“When granddad died, I felt betrayed twice, both by his will and by his death. He stripped us all of our inheritance and at first, yeah I was mad about the money. But after a while I realized it was never the money I wanted. I just wanted him to be proud of me. I thought out of everyone in my family, I could at least make my grandfather proud.” 

“He’d be proud of the man you’ve made yourself to be now, Ransom. I know that.”

His arms tighten around her waist. “You didn’t owe us a damn thing. Not a single one of us. Not my parents, not Meg, not my uncle. None of us. And you sure as hell didn’t owe me anything--” 

Urging his head back, Marta commands his gaze. “How many times do I have to tell you, Ransom? It’s not about “owing” people anything. I wanted to do these things, regardless of whether you believed you were deserving of them or not. That’s how I was raised, that's how I  _ am _ .” 

Marta continues to pet Ransom’s hair, letting the reality of her bleed into his soul. 

She continues, “I wasn’t just going to let you drown out there Ransom. Harlan wouldn’t want that for you.  _ I don’t want that for you _ .” 

“Has anyone ever told you your kindness is absolutely fucking infuriating.” 

Marta wraps her arms around Ransom’s shoulders, bending down to meet him halfway, tucking her head into his shoulder. “You’ve told me once or twice.” 

He laughs into her stomach again. This time it nearly makes her knees wobble. “You sent me a fucking dog.” 

“I know, isn’t she wonderful?” Astra, as if understanding them, licks Marta’s leg and nuzzles against her. 

Ransom releases Marta and stands in front of her. Her tongue swells in her throat, unable to speak under his gaze. 

“You looked beautiful tonight,” he finally admits before cradling her face in his hands, stroking his thumbs over her cheeks. 

Surprise washes over her face, then pure joy. “See! That’s how you compliment someone.” 

Marta has always known Ransom to be someone to go out and get what he wants. He doesn’t ask, he just takes. Impossibly impatient. That’s who he’s always been to her. That’s the part of him that Harlan both adored and detested about his grandson. 

So when Ransom leans into Marta’s space, but won’t take the plunge, and breathes “Can I kiss you, Marta?” it shocks her. 

This pliable, beautiful man that stares at her now like a setting sun, whose inferno is only sated by her, stands there with the patience of nothing she’s ever seen. It roots her still, her hands clutching his sweater like they did the day she first knew he wasn’t a  _ complete _ asshole. 

“ _ Please _ .” 

And he does. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)


End file.
